


5 Years

by bringewritepurge



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 18:30:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21081131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringewritepurge/pseuds/bringewritepurge





	1. Year One

Their goodbye had been final, but they continued to communicate. The day after he’d left her at the bus stop, he sent her a letter. Well, not a letter really, a poem and not one he’d written. It wasn’t a love poem, even if love might have been what he wanted to express. It was about loss and presence, an expression of “I’m here, even if I’m not there.” Even if the poem evoked nothing in her, she’d be amused by how old timey the sentiment was. Pen, paper, an envelope, a stamp. Though she probably wasn’t yet at the amused stage. He certainly wasn’t.

He hadn’t gotten in touch to be polite. He’d done it because it felt wrong to not say anything, he couldn’t bear the idea that she thought he might not care, or wasn’t equally as distraught, and also because he missed her. Selfishly, he’d found comfort in the process: the reading and then re-reading to make sure it conveyed exactly what was needed, and could not be misconstrued, and then the writing and re-writing, because he’d left out two words in the third stanza. At the very least it had been something to do.

He didn’t hear from her, which was fine and as he’d expected. Then, 3 weeks later, a small package arrived. He knew immediately, when he saw the pretty black ink loops forming his name, the tell-tale cursive of a public-school girl, that it was from her. Inside, in shiny blue wrapping, was something misshapen and squidgy. He dipped his finger underneath the ribbon, his mind going to where it often went these days – to their night together and the memory of undoing her coat that first time. He took a moment to finish the thought, then pulled. The paper popped open to reveal a small, well-worn soft toy: Piglet. He turned it over in his palm, and saw that sewn to the back of its stripey onesie was a label, the old-fashioned kind his grandmother had stitched into the back collars of his school jumpers. In black type that had faded grey, so small he had to squint to read, it said her name. 

He sent her a coconut from the Church fete. She sent him a vintage t-shirt featuring a cartoon picture of a vacant-eyed fox in a puffer jacket and the words Stoned Cold Fox underneath. Of all the gifts, it was the most dangerously suggestive, but he accepted it in the same spirit with which it had been delivered: with a heartfelt, and somewhat horrified, laugh. He returned the favour a month later with a top he’d found at a Dublin charity shop: inexplicably, it featured a line drawing of a guinea pig on a bicycle.

They never included notes. 

With each exchange, more time would pass, until eventually they stopped, and a year had elapsed. 

When her godmother called to invite him to their first anniversary dinner, he’d promptly declined, claiming to have a meeting to attend. The family would be dining at the same Covent Garden restaurant, which in more ways than one would feel like returning to the scene of a crime, though the brother-in-law’s absence made it marginally less likely the evening would end in fisticuffs. Over the next few days, he found himself waffling. Not trusting himself to do something impetuous and show up at the last second, he’d gone ahead and actually scheduled a meeting. For extra safe keeping, he’d made it out of town. 

\--

They lived in relatively close proximity to each other; her parents were even closer; it seemed absurd that this dinner would have been the first risk to have presented itself. Except this was London, where one could shop at a different market every night. Or just do all their shopping online, as he’d instructed Pam to do, so that his cupboards were so well-stocked, he avoided ever having to do a high-risk food run. He’d given up going to favourite off license, opting instead to order wine by the case, and spirits directly from the distillery – this felt a little precious, which was unlike him, but he had to do what had to be done. 

He'd been especially vigilant in steering clear of the areas he knew she frequented, going nowhere near her café or her flat; taking roundabout routes to avoid her parents’ house. As they’d never once seen each other, he’d assumed she’d been doing the same.

He’d booked his train for an hour before their meal would begin, leaving himself no options, should a self-destructive impulse take hold. They’d be finishing their starters as the train was pulling into Oxford, and he’d soon to be strolling through the iron gates of Worcester College. He’d meet a theologian he knew from seminary for a sherry, they’d follow that with a curry, and then he’d kill time at the bookstore before boarding the last train to London. He’d emerge at Paddington Station, long after the restaurant had shut, and long past the last tube, feeling pious and righteous, and with enough energy to do the long walk home. 

He’d been passing the British Museum when he’d seen the dark-haired woman in the short black trench across the road. His heart revved. The idea that, having taken all those measures not to see her, their paths were crossing here, the only two people on Euston Road, in the dead of night. This was not something to ignore. God had put her in his path for a reason; even if only to test him, and he had no choice but to pursue. Before he’d even crossed the street, he was calculating the hours they’d have together before he had to be at church the next morning. As soon as he’d crossed, he'd seen he’d been mistaken. The woman was older, her hair was curlier, the trench was brown not black. He’d whisked past, so as not to unnerve her, feeling dispirited by his brain’s brutal betrayal, tricking him into seeing what he’d wanted to see. This couldn’t have been God. After all the efforts he’d taken to restrain himself tonight, would God really choose this moment to remind him of his weakness? It seemed too cruel.

At King’s Cross, he got a taxi home.


	2. Year Two

He’d actually attended the 2nd Anniversary dinner. He’d arrived first, and seen that the reservation was for 4, which had given him pause. Which four? When her parents had arrived, they’d informed the host there’d been a last-minute cancellation and they’d now be a table of 3. Claire, they explained to him, was off on a long-overdue holiday, and “the other one,” as her godmother referred to her, remained “as flighty as ever,” having sent a text just as they were leaving the house to say she wouldn’t be able to make it after all. “No apology, no explanation,” she’d huffed. 

“I’m sure she had a good reason,” he’d said, offended on her behalf, and pained that her father never rose to her defence. It crossed his mind that perhaps she too had been early, and that maybe she’d seen him at the bar and ducked away. Then he’d scolded himself for being an egomaniac. She wouldn’t care about seeing him, she’d have long moved on. 2 years had passed, and that meant one thing to him, and something entirely different for her. He had opted for a simple life, predictable for the sake of piety. Of course, he still thought of her. But things moved faster in her world. She’d be 35 now, and for all he knew maybe even married, though the reservation had been for 4 not 5, and no one had mentioned a wedding. “My best to the family,” he’d said in parting. 

\--

Even at the time, he’d known cutting things off would be more difficult for him than for her – at least in the long run. He’d known, even before he’d kissed her that night in her flat, that the choice he was about to make wasn’t solely about consummating desire, but also submitting to pain. Giving in to her would mean giving her up. He’d tried to explain this to her. I can’t have sex with you, because I’ll fall in love with you…..If I fall in love with you, my life will be fucked. Fucked not because he’d leave the church for her. He was in no position to do that. Fucked because he’d have to suffer losing her.

He’d never forget how stunned she’d appeared at the mention of love, as if she’d never considered this possibility. It had crushed him – not because he feared she didn’t feel the same. Even if she hadn’t, he’d have been okay with it. But, because she was so foregone, had been so consumed in her pursuit of a conquest, so hardened by whatever trauma she’d endured, love had never been a factor for her. This had made him want to show it to her all the more. 

He’d still been in her bed and she’d still been in his arms, when the grief had taken hold; that last time, in the morning, he’d been grateful they’d chosen a position where she couldn’t see his face. At the bus stop, when he’d told her it would pass, he’d meant that for her, it would pass. The best he could wish for was that eventually it might ease.


	3. Year Three

He hadn’t been able to attend the 3rd year’s dinner, which had been a blessing. He’d been having a difficult year.

He usually paid no attention to birthdays, but turning 45 had him feeling rough around the edges. Work had been a struggle – mostly bureaucratic stuff that had him feeling in over his head, but also a couple of parishioners dealing with particularly wrenching matters. He’d found his faith faltering, and had slipped up a few times: once on New Year’s with an old friend he’d run into on a visit home. It had been safe, angst-free, and mostly inconsequential, though that in itself was dangerous, and in Spring, they’d gotten together again. Then there’d been the visiting academic from Germany he’d met on a return trip to Oxford. This had required a bit more penance; though, to be fair, he hadn’t known about the husband and children back in Berlin at the time. 

And so, he didn’t think he could risk seeing her. Not because they’d rekindle – he wasn’t so full of himself as to still think he’d have that option -- but because he couldn’t bear the thought. The idea that he might find himself sitting across from her and a partner, making small talk about when their new baby was due. In theory, he wanted all of these things for her, but that didn’t mean he wanted to bear witness to it. At least not this year, when he was feeling vulnerable, and could so easily tailspin.

Jake was off at university now, so he no longer saw Claire. He’d run into her father once, but the old man had only wanted to discuss politics. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d Googled her, and felt no temptation to find her on social media for fear of what he’d see. Any curiosity about her had been supplanted by the strong desire not to know, lest jealousy and regret sink him into a deeper, darker, hole. 

So, when, on the night of the dinner, he’d been called to deliver last rites to an elderly parishioner, forcing him to cancel, it had felt like salvation. Her family would be long past dessert when the old man exited this earth. Days later, at the funeral, he delivered the eulogy with extra solemnity and also some gratitude, unable to disassociate the death from his personal reprieve.


	4. Year Four

The 4th one had caught him off-guard. He’d been having a busy year. 

That long-ago trip to Oxford had led to an invitation from the divinity school to be on a panel on modern day Catholicism, which had led to a request to submit an article for a theology journal which had led to being asked to deliver a lecture at the student union which had led to a suggestion from the university publisher that he consider expanding said article into a book. It was a scholarly book, but because he wasn’t actually a scholar, he wrote from a personal place, invoking not only scripture to make his points, but also his own experiences in the field along with the Vatican’s twitter feed and The Christian teen movies he’d seen on Netflix. It had recently gone to press, and You Gotta Have Faith: Catholicism in A Culture of Confession had just been published.

The publisher had been just as shocked as he when there’d been interest from the general public, who apparently had little understanding of what priests actually did, and were curious. This had led to an excerpt in The Guardian which had led to an interview on Radio 4 which had led to a string of texts from her godmother with offers to throw parties and host salons, all of which he’d politely declined. He was still very busy, he explained, with his duties as a priest. She’d followed up with a reminder to save the date for the 4th Anniversary Dinner. He’d only had to glance at the text before he was wondering whether she’d be there.

In 4 years, so many things had changed, but one thing hadn’t.

\--

The bookstore was in an old converted warehouse, larger than he’d expected. He’d never heard of it but that didn’t mean anything as he didn’t get out much, and rarely had reason to come to Clerkenwell. It was called simply Books. He couldn’t decide if he found this refreshingly minimalistic or pretentious. In the front window, behind the glass, a sign advertised the afternoon’s book reading and signing with a blow-up of his book cover, and even a photo of him – a head shot the publisher had insisted he have done. (And be sure to include the priest collar they’d reminded the photographer more times than necessary.) There’d been a suggestion he wear makeup – just a bit of under-eye concealer, the photographer kept saying. He’d demurred, citing a line from a little-known psalm about the sins of vanity. Seeing the photo blown up, he conceded their point.

He was early, as always, and instead of announcing his arrival to the clerk at the information desk who’d bring him to some backroom to meet the publicist, where they’d have to make awkward small talk, he followed the signs to the café, upstairs and out of sight.

“Apologies,” the barista said, frowning over the latte he’d ordered. “We have someone new on foam, and she’s experimenting. It was supposed to be a leaf on top, I think, but she’s done something more abstract. Do you want me to have her re-do it?”

“Of course not,” he said, handing over 5 pounds.

“Sorry about this. We’re all a bit muddled. The bosses from corporate are here.” The barista motioned to a huddle of suits at a table in the corner. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t show them,” he said. 

He took a seat, then sipped his coffee without looking at his phone or even reading a book. Considering his job, he wasn’t shy about speaking in public, but he still needed to get himself into the right headspace. At church the focus wasn’t him as much as Him, and he wasn’t as accustomed to its being, well, him. It was sort of meditative to just sit and stare, though he imagined it might freak people out – the collar and all.

His gaze travelled from the baristas working to the lunch crowd queuing to the corner table of parents and prams to the suits from corporate whose meeting appeared to be breaking up. For suits, they weren’t very suit-like: a woman in her mid-sixties with a crisply cut bob in a long suede coat cursed loudly then laughed, throwing her head back, before turning on her heels to go, a young colleague trailing behind. Two more assistant types followed, jabbing at their phones as they walked, one looking up for a moment to turn back and call: “Should we have the car meet you out front or out back?”

“Actually, I’ll walk,” a voice replied, the final remaining suit and the only one who was actually wearing one, though it was far from corporate, at least corporate as he once knew it, with its wide-legged trousers paired with white trainers. His gaze rose upward to an oversized jacket hanging open to reveal a tight-fitting T-shirt with a guinea pig on the front. A guinea pig on a bicycle.

Considering how much time he’d spent thinking of her and conjuring her, it took an exceptionally long time for him to recognize her, for his head to catch up with his eyes and understand what was happening. Even with the T-shirt--the T-shirt he’d given her even--as a clue. It wasn’t that she looked so much older, though she did look changed. Her face had narrowed, her cheek bones were more pronounced, and she appeared more polished overall: earrings, lips less red, more expensive bag. “Oh,” he managed to utter, and she stopped mid-step to look. She too might have faltered, but for the dead giveaway around his neck. He took solace in the fact that she appeared equally as tongue-tied

She stepped toward the table, as if she needed a closer look in order to confirm. He was still sitting, and realising this was rude, stood up so quickly and with such little grace, the table shook, and his coffee sloshed. “Bastard,” he shouted a little too loudly.


	5. Year 4: Reunion

“What are you? How are you? It is you, right?” 

“I think we’ve established that,” he said, motioning to the spill.

“I don’t know why I said that. You look exactly the same.”

“Except older.”

“More distinguished, not older. Hold on.” She called to the barista. “If you could --.” Within seconds, the barista arrived with a dish towel. 

“Can I get you another?” the barista asked. “Father,” he added awkwardly.

“He’ll have another,” she said in a kind but firm tone he hadn’t remembered hearing her use before. “Ginger tea for me with --.”

“--lemon on the side.”

“Yes, lemon on the side. It’s kind of you to remember.” The barista scurried off.

They sat face to face. “You look exactly the same, too,” he said. 

“Oh, don’t say that. There’s a family photo from my dad’s wedding at the house, and I look like I’m wearing a child’s dress.”

He laughed. “I don’t recall thinking that. Okay, maybe you look a bit more distinguished as well – but only sartorially speaking. Well, except for -- .” He motioned to her front, then realized he was pointing to her chest and looked away. She glanced downward.

“Oh wow… I didn’t realise…. Wow, that is…strange. You realize you sent this to me, right? This is embarrassing. I hope you don’t think I’ve worn this every day for however many years it’s been.” 

“Four. How is your guinea pig?”

“Dead, thanks for asking. You don’t have to look like that. Please, no ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ stuff. It’s been years. She died soon after I last saw you, actually. It was a good thing. I know that sounds awful. I was sad, but it helped me move on.” She seemed to realise how that sounded. “I don’t mean from you. From the other stuff that came before. The reason I was such a fucking mess when you knew me. My friend who’d died. Hillary had belonged to her, and once they were both gone, it allowed me to…. I’ll never be over it -- my friend, not Hillary, but….” She looked sad for a moment, and got silent, though not in the way she had once gotten silent. She still appeared to be at the table. “Oh, do you want to hear another weird thing?” She tugged on the neck of the T-shirt. “This arrived the day after Hillary died. The day after.”

“Really?”

“It seemed like it was an act of God. I swear I almost joined a church right then and there. Not your church, obviously. But I wanted to tell you so badly. I thought about doing it so many times. But, of course, I couldn’t, and then I decided – this is going to sound strange -- that you already knew. I don’t mean literally. But it was so, so….” She searched for the word, and didn’t find it. “It made me feel like you were still with me in some way I didn’t understand. I think that’s when I stopped trying to get over you.”

It took him a second to really hear what she’d said. She’d stopped trying to get over him. Not: she’d gotten over him. As significant as the content of this statement had been, what felt more significant was how normal she appeared to have found saying it. She didn’t recoil, embarrassed to have admitted such a thing; nor did he blush, having received it. There was no awkwardness or heaviness in the moments that followed. Only peace.

\--

It was only after the publicist’s “Where are you?????” text that he realized he’d lost track of time, and catapulted out of his seat. They talked fast on the way downstairs, trying to get in as much catching up as they could.

“What do you mean you wrote a book? A book? Really? I can’t believe my godmother never told me.”

“Well, why would she think you’d be interested?”

“She tells me all sorts of things I’m not interested in.”

“Wait, you still haven’t told me what you do here. You do work here, right?”

“Only in the sense that I own it. Not alone. I have a backer. She’s who I was meeting here. I usually work out of our Spitalfields branch, which makes being here at the same time all the madder. Her people are in charge of the book aspect. I run the café and the co-working spaces. That’s where we make most of our money. It’s mainly writers, so all of its connected. They work upstairs, and then if it goes well for them, they get published and sell their books downstairs. There are workshops, and get togethers. Every Wednesday there’s some sort of meet and greet. Sorry, boring, I know.” 

“Not in the least. So, you really didn’t know I’d be here?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. And, no, not my department.”

“Can I ask about the name?”

She grinned. “Too basic for you, is it? It has to do with my friend.”

“Her name was Books?”

“Boo. If you look closely at the logo, you’ll see the first three letters are a slightly different colour. It’s subtle, but it’s just for me to see.”

They’d reached the ground floor where, waiting at the foot of the stairs, the publicist looked frantic.


	6. Year 4: Reading

It had been a decent-sized crowd, mostly graduate-school types, and people from the spirituality industry, which was not an official term for the life coaches and meditation guides who peppered him with questions about mindfulness, stillness and gratitude, just how he thought of them in his head. Then there’d been the young seminarians with their heartfelt concerns about politics and the Catholic church, and how he handled having beliefs in direct opposition to the establishment. He got this question a lot and had a stock answer about having long ago made peace with this, reminding them he didn’t agree with much their current government did either, but was still a law-abiding citizen – mostly. (This usually got a chuckle.) 

His answer was true – to a point. He might not be willing to announce it to a room of strangers, but something had been changing. Maybe it was age? Maybe it was being out in the world more, being around all these young people. Maybe it was having done this work for long enough to see not just the help the church gave, but also the damage it wrought. He had been finding it harder and harder to reconcile the two. A half decade in, he’d witnessed a generation of kids become teenagers, and had seen his share of identity crises and sexual awakenings, and families embroiled in ugliness that rivalled what he’d experienced. As broad-minded and loving as the counsel he gave might be, it fell far short of what he might want to offer were he not a representative of his faith; and it fell farther short of what those in charge would want him to say. He often felt like he was doing wrong by everybody: his parishioners, his employers, and himself. 

There’d been one churlish question about celibacy and the culture of sex shaming, and he’d been grateful that she hadn’t been there as he stuttered through his usual response about a priest’s commitment to his calling not being a condemnation of desire, only a promise to God not to act on his own. “So how do priests deal with desire?” a girl in a university hoodie called out in a tone that said she didn't expect an answer but would meet him after if he were up for it. The audience had tittered. 

He saw her, standing off to the side with a quiet smile. How long had she been there and how much had she heard? 

He’d done enough of these Q and A’s to know which questions inevitably followed the celibacy one. It tended to be an opening of the gates. “How did he feel about the church’s ideas about birth control? Oral sex? Sodomy, for that matter? He was grateful when the publicist stood to announce they were out of time. 

The signing went longer than it was meant to, solely because of his insistence on giving every person the individual attention they were due. If Q and A’s sometimes devolved into audience showmanship, signings reminded him of just how lovely humans could be. He never ceased to be touched by the people who didn’t just read his book -- which was humbling as is -- but who took the time to queue and tell him so. 

For so long, he’d constrained himself to a contained world. Writing had popped it open. He exited through the same door he’d entered. She was leaning against the window, smoking a cigarette, waiting for him.


	7. Year Four: Night

“You know, I slept in a rectory earlier this year,” she said, sitting up to accept the glass of water he’d gone downstairs to get her. “What? No, not because I was shagging some other priest. A holiday cottage in Wales, super swank. I thought of you there. How could I not? Converted Catholic church, and all. We --”

“You can stop there,” he said, clapping his hand over her mouth to make sure she did. “I don’t want to hear about you and some boyfriend’s holiday break.” She laughed. He could feel the trembling of her lips on his palm. Even that felt good. “Or husband. Christ, it’s not a husband, is it?”

“Says the man who actually has a husband.” She moved his hand away from her mouth, but kept hold of it. “We had a 5-hour dinner. You think I wouldn’t have mentioned if I were married.”

“I don’t know. We had a lot of ground to cover." He slipped back under the covers, then curled into her. He’d found an odd pleasure in his jealous outburst. Some memories from 4 years ago had blurred, but he keenly remembered that night, when the guy she’d intended to shag had come ‘round, and how he’d had to endure listening to them talk about their last encounter, feeling neutered and demoralised, having no right to stake his claim. 

“Anyway, why do you assume it was a man?” 

“Well, we’ve never discussed.”

“About half the time, it’s a man. Maybe a little more than half.” 

“Okay, but shh.” He held his index finger over his mouth. He still didn’t want to hear.

She placed her glass onto the nightstand, then lay back down, eyes following the wooden rafters down the ceiling. “This is way nicer than how I pictured it. I thought it’d be more austere.”

“I gave it a little refurb a couple of years back. Priests are meant to live simply, but that doesn’t have to mean a cheap fucking mattress that wrenches my back and sends me to physio every fucking month.” 

“What happened to the woman who used to live here?”

“Pam? She got married. Second wedding I performed, actually. She still works here. I never liked having a live-in housekeeper, but I think the bishop thought I needed one to keep me in check.”

She poked him in the chest, then dragged her finger in a straight line downward until he gulped. She grinned, and dragged her finger back up again, sketching invisible figure eights over his upper body. “You don’t need to be kept in check anymore?”

“No.”

“No temptations, then?”

“Not ones that have mattered.” She winced, and ripped her finger from his chest. “What?” he said, stunned to see how quickly she’d gone from placid to totally pissed off. “Oh, come on, are you-?” Her cheeks had gone red, and her right hand had balled itself into a fist. “Are you going to have at me?” He laughed. “You want to rough and tumble?”

“Fuck off. Do you know that was my biggest fear? That you’d leave for someone else. That I’d have fucked it up, but someone else would do it right. You’d leave for them.”

He grabbed her wrist, harder than maybe he’d intended and certainly harder than she’d expected, and pushed her onto her back without letting go. “Not a god damn chance.”

\--

They made a point of arriving separately to the 4th anniversary dinner, a more boisterous affair than usual with both of them there and Claire and her lot in from Finland, then couldn’t be bothered to hide it when they left together.


	8. Year Five

If the previous year had been about new paths beckoning, this one was about heeding their calls. Most convenient was how they all took him to the same place.

He accepted the lectureship from Oxford on the same day her partner proposed opening a Books there. The train he’d once timed to avoid seeing her, they now travelled regularly together. 

He attended the conference at the divinity school in Boston the same week as she’d been in New York City to meet their new American partners, and so he’d joined her there to do a quick city break, why they couldn’t attend Anniversary Dinner Number 5.

What had once been inconceivable now seemed like no big deal, one of the many ways he knew it was right. He’d always imagined that if he left the parish, it’d be in shambles. But it was just a matter of calling a removal company and getting things in order for the new young priest who’d soon be taking over. 

Whatever the church had given him, he’d found a way to give himself, which didn’t mean God hadn’t been part of the equation. He still believed. How else to explain running into her on that day, after all that time, at the exact right point when they were both ready. There was a reason he’d been asked to visit that bookstore, had arrived that many minutes early, that she’d chosen that T-shirt that morning. It was all, had all, been part of a plan.

It used to be that "I’m here, even if I’m not there” was the best he could give. Now only "I'm here" would do.


End file.
